Nothing Risked, Nothing Gained
by Lizard Pie
Summary: America takes part in the Savannah Campaign as he tries to put an end to the Civil War.  Rated for violence.


They'd celebrated their victory over shots of whiskey. America had a double, for purposes of pain relief.

Sherman, drunk on victory and tragically warm liquor, patted him on the back. "Georgia will howl before this is over, don't you worry."

And, with Georgia, the rest of the South. America offered an exhausted laugh before bed and, when he awoke, he was told they had a present for him. In their walk from what he'd made his bed to the crowd of soldiers, Sherman told him the plan Lincoln had approved after a nod from Grant. In anyone else's hands, this would have been a suicide mission. But, now, it was exactly the sort of thing they believed he needed.

This had all started with South Carolina, which was hardly a surprise. From the earliest days of his childhood, he'd been abrasive and pushy. His siblings could be as hard-headed as he was, but they weren't a match. So, when he'd decided to secede, the others had fallen like dominos.

Thanks to his bullying, America's ever-passionate Georgia was now bound to a pole. He'd been stripped naked to reveal the sweaty, shallow skin. The fight was near out of him, but the hatred, the defiance, was still in his eyes. It was a shame that he'd allowed his brother to corrupt him so much. It was even more of a shame that he'd have to be the sacrificial lamb in order to get his brother back in line. There was no sense, though, in lamenting what they couldn't change.

When America attempted to get closer, a soldier put a hand on his shoulder. "He has the propensity to spit, sir," a soldier told him. "You might want to stay back."

Georgia's glare flickered, unintentionally, from America to the sword which sat in a fire and steadily built to a bright glow.

As per orders, they were to start in Atlanta.

That they'd been able to take it at all was telling for a lot of reasons. Forces had just exhausted themselves in attempts to defend an area which was crucial, but so deep into Confederate territory that it should never have been reachable if things were going well. This wasn't lost on Georgia.

Under orders from Sherman, America checked the sword to make sure it'd finally reached a proper temperature. The sweat that glistened on Georgia's flesh, the quiver in America's thigh in connection, no longer had anything to do with the heat around them.

He knew what they were doing now, if he hadn't already. The stress made America hurt more than he had. He was sure he'd hardly be able to march anymore after this. Of course, he'd said things like this before.

The now-molten sword dug into the heart of Atlanta, and Georgia screeched. America near yelled, as well, did a look from Sherman not keep him silent. The whole point of this exercise, after all, was to not show weakness in the face of an enemy.

The confederacy had cracks, it had since the very beginning. They bickered amongst each other as much as they fought the union, and refused to send troops to support their siblings in favor of some semblance of self-preservation.

Whether it was bitterness, or just a lack of men left to defend themselves, the troops sent from and to Georgia were meager and ineffective. If Georgia had, or hadn't, expected it was unknown.

They moved to Griswold.

America shifted his weight to relieve the pressure on his thigh as the hot metal sliced its way through Georgia's flesh and what life and motivation he'd retained after all the fighting poured in rivers to the now-mud around his feet.

With the path of the wound, the soldiers moved like a plague of locusts. They consumed all they could, and set fire to the rest. Fresh horses were plucked straight from farms after the cows and sheep spilled from the throat.

No business was to be left with more than a charred frame, and they followed those orders with gusto.

They moved onto Buck Head Creek.

Like locusts, they moved furiously and quickly. They never stayed anywhere longer than it took to consume everything, it kept people from arranging militancy.

Or, rather, to organize militancy if Georgia had anywhere near the power to fight. With his young men gone or dead, with his population starving and growing steadily more impoverished, it was only thanks to the pole that he was still on his feet.

America wondered what went on inside his state's mind. Maybe he regretted that he'd allowed himself to be persuaded to rebellion. Or, maybe, it was something very different.

He sliced his way to Honey Hill.

Georgia's screams had moved to exhausted moans.

America and his colonies had learned the art of war from Europeans who hadn't respected them enough to believe they'd paid attention. Even when they'd won, there'd been little more than a shrug offered.

Now, with the same sort of indifference to their fate, those same Europeans sold weapons, medicine, anything at all, to anyone who came up with the money.

This sword which ripped through him might have been from the exact same factory as the one that had been tossed on his discarded clothing. Ironic, America supposed.

By the time they reached Waynesboro, America wasn't able to put any weight on his left leg. It throbbed horribly as blood began to soak through his trousers.

This was added to the quake from Missouri as Illinois breathed down his neck. Virginia convulsed, despite herself, as she used what little medicine she could gather to heal her wounds. Tennessee cried out as his vital regions were attacked, then conquered.

His body was in pain, but most of all it was war weary and very much ready for things to be finished. America wasn't sure how much more of this he could manage. They needed this to end, and according to Sherman's encouragement it wasn't going to be much longer.

America made for Second Fort McAllister.

It was only as Georgia was too exhausted and hurt to audibly cry out that America paused internally. Externally, his sword continued to move at a steady pace.

His realization was reluctant, but he knew he should have seen this war coming. He probably would have, did he not spend so much time at work on his expansion and so little listening to the grumblings of his parts. If he'd dealt with all those little issues when they'd come up, maybe he would be busy mining now, with happy, industrious states.

Thanks to that neglect, the cries of his children were in his ears and the pain they felt wracked through his body. This was drowned out, but not quite, by the panted breath in front of him.

Regardless of his guilt, there was nothing left to do but cut through Altamaha Bridge. Griswoldville, they'd had issues. Now they just kept moving.

America made sure to take out more rail road that kept Georgia supported. The troops left a scorched wake behind them as they finally neared, and took, Savannah for their own.

America twisted the sword, and removed it. The metal, now significantly darker both with temperature and blood, cut the bounds which kept Georgia upright. He fell to the ground in a puddle of what he had been. The damage was too severe for him to consider rising for a long time, perhaps forever.

Sherman kneeled down to see the wound better.

"This would make a fine Christmas present," he said. "I'll send word before morning." He stood back up. "We're finished here, let's move out."

America looked down at the state he'd ravaged. With purpose, good purpose for the sanctity of their family if Georgia would ever see that, but it was still brutal.

Georgia didn't try to get up. He sobbed, for reasons that had little to do with the pain he felt. America told Georgia he'd be back, sometime, and forced himself to march to the next battle.

They'd celebrated their victory over shots of whiskey. America had a triple, for purposes of pain relief.


End file.
